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It's Sunday morning and raining unapologetically. Four days of festival
lunacy are really starting to take their toll on the group, with everybody
on a comedown or generally downbeat. It actually rained so badly I decided
to bury my head in a book for a few hours.
Must have fallen asleep. Is that The Zutons I hear? Ah yes. Back
to bed. Two hours and a toilet break later everybody is up and rejuvenated.
It pays to save a stash of booze. With everyone in good spirits wolfing down
grease burgers, we head for the Other Stage, which had been packed for
The Divine Comedy.
We easily stroll to the front for the Ordinary Boys. I wasn't holding my breath, having been bored stifless by them a
few weeks ago. The boys put a gathering crowd through their paces and were
much improved, leaving Week in Week Out stuck in my head for the rest of the
day. To everybody's shock they hauled on Phil Jupitus for a barmy cover of
The Specials' Little Bitch. Aside from that the boys were again,
quite ordinary.
The same line was in tow for The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster. This scribe's Glasto send-off was a sober night at the Frog
club. Eighties Matchbox were the late night band and breaknecked their way
through a barrage of blasts and shrieks. Today they were even worse. It was
frankly, shocking stuff. Lord, are these bands really the proclaimed future
of rock?
"Ladies and gentlemen please welcome The Godfather of Soul, all American
Legend" and about a million other titles drivelled James Brown's
personal, Muppet-tongued compere. After a sweet fifteen minutes of funk and
soul build-up, James Brown walks on to an ecstatic reception. The Godfather
looks weary but never breaks his leather grin. His set nowadays is cleverly
worked around solos from his band and big chested go-go dancers, with The
Godfather taking a backseat in a kind of conductor's role. When needed he
does pull out the pirouette or bounce the mic. For his age and indeed the
band, it was remarkable to have it so tight. Wisely they left out living in
America, which the Scissor Sisters found out yesterday, is no place
to trumpet round these parts.
Half an hour left of Television but twice that long of a walk. An
OMH sleeper reliably informs us that a scant New Tent (what an insult!) saw one of
the sets of the weekend. Over here on the Pyramid Stage, the standing area
is rapidly filling with anticipation as The Libertines stand in's
Supergrass are due shortly. A mud fight blocks the path to Belle And Sebastian so I grab a Calippo and stay put. Gaz Coombes looks like a
Pharisee. Honestly! That's about the most unexpected thing we get from
Supergrass. Celebrating their 10th anniversary they pump out the hits,
including a brilliant acoustic rendition of Caught By The Fuzz. They go down
well despite an awful shower, in which Gaz almost stutters during Grace (as a
rainbow appears).
Over at the Other Stage the standing area is notably empty for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club; then again they are competing against
Morrissey. BRMC did little to steal his thunder, beginning with some
acoustic numbers before getting the dirty hits out a la Whatever Happened To
My Rock N' Roll? / Six Barrel Shotgun. In the bored rock star stakes they
beat Oasis by a mile.
And so to the final slot of the evening. musicOMH lacks the energy to see out
Orbital's final bow, Ozomatli isn't quite right to see out a
festival, so we settle for Muse. Quite how huge the local trio have
become is improbable, but a packed Pyramid Stage crowd balances the
equation. As they proved back at Reading a few years ago, Muse are a great
live band. Sing For Absolution had literally thousands crooning along with
Matt Bellamy. Plug In Baby and Newborn proved how stunning a three piece can
be, given the right tools and the stage. It was also good to hear oldies
like Sunburn, and realise how Muse both outlived and outshone contemporaries
such as My Vitriol, Cay and Seafood.
At midnight they departed after Stockholm Syndrome, trashing their
equipment and declaring it as their best ever gig. In a flash a million
moments come flooding to me. So many, many experiences. Miles walked. Lost
in Lost Vagueness. Awe at the madness of the Stone Circle on Thursday night.
You could write a short story about these five days and you'd still miss
something out. The beauty of Glastonbury is the experience and the moments
while you're there, be it from a band, drugs or the enormity of it all. It's
difficult now to look back on it and recall, though it is charming and fond
to remember. Again there were declarations of this being the best
Glastonbury ever. Even whispers at the prospect of U2 and The Rolling Stones next year. Hmmm, maybe. But hell, what a gig 2004 was.
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